


High Toxicity

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Series: Octoberfest fics [27]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt on potions, Jaskier is into it, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: Geralt stalks like a beast through the forest, strength and anger rippling beneath his skin and twisting into dark, bitter shapes.The potions give him the edge he needs to take on larger, more dangerous monsters. But once the killing blow is struck and a trophy claimed, he’s left like this, with poison running through his veins and bile building in the back of his throat.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Octoberfest fics [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956754
Comments: 8
Kudos: 243





	High Toxicity

**Author's Note:**

> geraskier kinktober day 28: high toxicity

Geralt stalks like a beast through the forest, strength and anger rippling beneath his skin and twisting into dark, bitter shapes.

The potions give him the edge he needs to take on larger, more dangerous monsters. But once the killing blow is struck and a trophy claimed, he’s left like this, with poison running through his veins and bile building in the back of his throat.

He feels raw, every nerve exposed, every sensation overwhelming and yet also distant. The Cat has sharpened his senses to flood the dark night with sickly white light, but spots of acute brightness dance in the corners of his vision and every twig cracked underfoot sounds like a thunderclap, reverberating throughout his body.

The Tawny Owl gives him the stamina to fight on long past the point a human would have dropped dead from exhaustion, but it doesn’t take away the tiredness deep in his bones. The weariness weighs on him like a yoke, dragging him down toward the earth, but he knows there is no way he’ll be able to rest or to sleep until the heavy thrumming clears from his bloodstream.

The potions are toxic and cruel, but he has made his peace with them and their necessity in his life. Still, he will not impose himself on others in this state, at his most base and vicious. 

His eyes are black from pupil to sclera, more wolf than man, and thick, dark veins spread across the taught, pale skin of his face. He longs to snap and to tear with pointed canines, to rend and to rip with sharp claws. He vibrates with furious, animalistic energy, and any creature that comes into his orbit turns and flees the moment they catch sight of his monstrous visage. 

He smells the bard before he sees him, and a ripple of rage runs through his chest. He’d _told_ him to stay back at the village. He’d _told_ him it wasn’t safe. In the months they’d been travelling together the bard had proven himself braver than his foppish appearance would suggest, but real dangers lurked in this forest.

Tonight, Geralt was the most dangerous of them all. He was all instinct and malignity, unfit for human company. And now he’d have to confront Jaskier in this state and see his horrified expression and smell his fear. The sharp, metallic tang of fear on the tongue was unpleasant at any point, but now, with his nerves frayed to the quick, it will be truly unbearable.

He resolves to get the damn confrontation over with and pushes into the campsite, all heavy steps and snarling teeth. Jaskier, who has been sat by the fire playing his lute, sucks in a quick breath when he catches sight of him. He waits for the screams of horror, the trembling of fear, the recriminations and excuses as Jaskier leaves. He braces himself for it like an oncoming storm.

Instead, Jaskier tilts his head to one side, considering. Geralt barely dares to move. “Huh,” Jaskier says, after a moment. “Is that a potion thing? Or a witcher thing? Or a you thing?”

Geralt doesn’t understand why he hasn’t run yet. He takes a step closer, lets Jaskier see his hideous form more clearly in the firelight. “Potions,” he snarls, waiting for the panic to set in.

“Huh,” Jaskier says again. He does not look panicked. He looks thoughtful. “Does it hurt?”

Geralt flinches back like he’s been struck. No one has ever asked him that before. Why would they? But Jaskier sits patiently, apparently awaiting an answer, so he grinds out the words. “Not exactly. It’s,” He casts around for a term to explain it. “Intense.”

Jaskier hums and gets to his feet. Now he will gather his things and make an excuse, and then he’ll be gone, frightened away by Geralt like everything else living.

Except Jaskier takes a step _toward_ him. And then another. Geralt stands still as a statue, unwilling to frighten him further. Jaskier walks right up to him, bold as the day they’d met, and examines his face with unabashed interest. 

“Would it help if I-” He wets his lips and Geralt follows the movement minutely. “- That is, can I -?” He lifts his hand and brushes the hair back from where it hangs in Geralt’s face, a movement so delicate and soft it feels like the ruffling of a breeze.

“There you are,” he says, and _smiles_.

This behaviour is mystifying, even by Jaskier’s standards. Geralt scents the air, trying to determine his mental state, looking for fear or confusion or disgust. He smells… he smells, honest to gods, only the sweet sickly cherry of _arousal_. 

What the fuck?

Whatever this is, he won’t keep Jaskier here against his will. “You can leave,” he growls. Jaskier’s face falls. “If you want.”

Jaskier shakes his head sadly, and brings one hand up to delicately cup his cheek. Through the hum of toxicity, the touch is warm and kind and grounding. “Silly witcher,” he says, so softly. “You won’t be rid of me that easily.”


End file.
